Any Colour You Like
by ladycobert
Summary: A multi-character, multi-ship collection of drabbles and ficlets, some from prompts and some from my own head. May or may not align with my Cobert head canon.
1. When you need support

_A/N: Tumblr prompt from Ame: "And do a Chelsie one of Elsie comforting Charles about Matthew's death (cuz he's upset for Mary)." This is my first dabble with Chelsie, and it aligns strictly with the series canon. Here goes_:

* * *

Elsie drew a distraught Charles into her sitting room, shooting a glance behind her at the others to indicate that they were not to be disturbed. Closing the door behind them, she had him sit down in his usual place. Then she stuck her head into one of her cabinets, reaching far back.

This caught Charles' attention, and he stared at her backside, perplexed. Wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, he half turned in his chair, his eyebrows almost meeting. "Might I ask what you're doing?"

But at that moment, Elsie withdrew herself from the cabinet with a triumphant, "Ah-ha ha-ha ha-haaa!" Whirling around, she had the grace to blush somewhat and became sober again. "I apologize, Mr. Carson. I simply thought for a moment that I'd misplaced this, and it turns out I haven't." She indicated the bottle in her hand.

"Brandy?" His brows now rose to the middle of his forehead. As many years as he'd known her, he didn't realize that Elsie kept a bottle of brandy in her sitting room.

"Yes. For medicinal purposes, of course." She twitched a brandy glass out of the cabinet next and poured a generous serving. This she placed in front of Charles before taking her chair across from him. "I think this calls for it. Please drink. It will do you some good."

Charles saw the concern on her face, heard it in her voice. Nodding once, he picked up the glass and took a long sip. Gazing down into the amber liquid, he remarked, "It's difficult to believe, isn't it? He's gone. He saw his son once, and then - never again. And poor Lady Mary, made a widow so young…." He applied his handkerchief to his eyes and sipped at the brandy.

Elsie listened to him, watched him. She slid her hand across the small table and curled her fingers around his wrist, as both his hands were full. He looked up at her in mild surprise. "Listen to me, Mr. Carson," she said, her voice firm, but her tone gentle. "You know better than anyone that I am not Lady Mary's greatest admirer. But she - the whole family - has suffered a great loss. Another great loss. Sometimes I wonder if this house is cursed," she muttered, half under her breath, her eyes traveling down to her hand on his wrist. Then she appeared to recall herself and lifted her eyes up once more, briefly tightening her fingers around him. "This family - both upstairs and down - pulls together when tragedy strikes. And this will be no different. We shall care for Lady Mary and her poor, wee babe."

"Yes, you're right, Mrs. Hughes." Charles swallowed the last of the brandy, then covered her hand with his own.

"And Lady Mary has no greater supporter to turn to than you." Her eyes locking with his, Elsie was pleased when he gave her a tiny smile. "We'll get through, Mr. Carson. Somehow."

Charles blinked rapidly, lowering his head again. He knew she was right, but his heart hurt for his favorite and her baby son. He'd seen how much Lady Mary went through, how she'd silently pined for Mr. Crawley, and just when they'd been their happiest, that happiness had been ripped away from her. It was cruel and unfair.

Suddenly, he felt Elsie remove her hand from his wrist, felt her pull it from beneath his own. He looked up in confusion as she took the few steps around the table. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she bent down and brushed her lips over his cheek. He stared at her, beholding her understanding, caring visage.

"And when you need support, you know where to come. My door is always open to you, Mr. Carson." Uncertain why she felt this would be the best means of comfort to him, Elsie pressed another kiss to his temple before standing straight again. Her hand remained on his shoulder. "More brandy?"

"Yes, I believe I'll have a small one." He watched as she poured it out, somewhat dazed. Elsie _was_ his greatest supporter, he realized, and his best friend. And her method of comfort appeared to be working.

Charles knew he'd be knocking on her door more often.


	2. We're different

_A/N: Modern AU from a tumblr prompt by Queenlovett. Also my first dabble with Andith._

* * *

"Anthony! Can you believe that? There is no way that young woman would fall for someone so old." Edith's voice rose in pitch as she pointed at the television screen.

Her husband's rich chuckle filled the living room. "No? Is it so hard to believe? Don't we have quite the age difference, darling?" Anthony leaned closer to press a kiss to her reddening cheek.

"We're different," she insisted, nestling closer to him and smiling when he put his arm around her shoulders. "You're different. When I look at you, I don't see an age. I see the magnificent man with the ice blue eyes who captured my fancy - and then my heart."

Anthony nodded his head toward the television. "Don't you think that perhaps that young woman feels the same way? Her family isn't pushing her in his path; she's seeking him out." He rested his chin lightly upon her strawberry blonde hair.

His wife played with his shirt buttons. "I still think you far superior to the man she's chasing. He hasn't even an ounce of your charm or your brilliance."

Chuckling again, he murmured, "The only brilliance I've exhibited, my sweet, is in giving this a chance and marrying you. You've brightened my life in a way I never anticipated."

A deep crimson staining her face, Edith lifted her head, then fumbled for the remote control, punching the "off" button. "Darling, let's go upstairs. I enjoy our love story far more than theirs."

Standing and holding out his hand to her, Anthony complied most willingly, kissing the backs of her fingers before leading her upstairs.


	3. Mutual benefit

_A/N: A little drabble I did for Ame about a month and a half ago. She wanted some fluffy, suggestive Richobel._

* * *

"Richard!" Isobel hissed beneath her breath.

He merely waggled his eyebrows and kept his eyes forward, not withdrawing his hand from her bottom.

Isobel wanted to giggle, but knew that now was not the time. They were attending a hospital benefit, where she stood next to him as the Chairman of the Board. Her cheeks were flushed, and she kept imagining what would happen when he took her back to Crawley House later.

Richard, for one, could not seem to help himself. Not in many years had he met anyone as kind or forthright or knowledgeable as Mrs. Isobel Crawley. It attracted him in a way he had not anticipated, and he wasn't sure how to handle as of yet. He couldn't seem to stay way from her – nor did he want to.


	4. Sweet nothing

_A/N: Tumblr prompt from monajo7, who wanted me to write something a bit angsty "where Elsie just gives up because he gives her nothing." And "maybe when she lets go he finally gives in – but he has to fight for her." Inspired – for her – by the song "Sweet Nothing" by Calvin Harris and Florence Welch._

"_So I put my faith in something unknown  
__I'm living on such sweet nothing  
__But I'm tired of hope with nothing to hold  
__I'm living on such sweet nothing"_

* * *

Several months had passed since Mr. Crawley's death. The family began to heal, and life downstairs returned to some semblance of normal.

But, with this normality, Elsie began to lose hope. For Charles had indeed knocked on her door more than he ever had in the past, had relied on her to help him through, had started to have her visit his pantry nightly for tea or sherry or wine left from the family's dinners. And while they grew closer, she'd wondered. She wondered if he would ever realize – would ever show her – what she suspected was true: that he felt for her something more than friendship and mutual professional respect.

When he'd heard the news that her lump wasn't cancer, hadn't he been so overjoyed that he sang? Hadn't he held her hand when Lady Sybil died? Hadn't he seemed pleasantly surprised when she'd kissed him upon the cheek and head when he'd been upset over Lady Mary's loss?

Ever since that day, Elsie had waited. She hadn't kissed him again, or even so much as touched his hand, since then. She wanted to see if he would respond in kind. Their meetings pleased her; they were sweet and enjoyable. Sometimes she even caught him looking at her in a certain way, a way that gave her even more hope. Then, when she went to bed at night, she'd lie awake and think of what it would be like to have Charles kiss her. She believed that it would be marvelous.

Yet, he didn't kiss her. He treated her with kindness and respect – and that was it. Nothing else.

Elsie might have been content with that several years before, but now was different. With so much loss in the house, she kept thinking that time shouldn't be wasted. And she longed to have more with Charles than just so many sweet nothings.

But she also knew Charles very well. He wouldn't respond well if she made the first move. The kisses she'd given him before he'd written off as comfort, certainly. Otherwise…. Well, she didn't know anymore. All she knew was she couldn't sit sedately with him in his pantry and pretend she felt less for him than she did.

So, this particular night, when Charles smiled at her in the servants' hall, most of the others having gone to bed, and said, "Shall we, Mrs. Hughes?" Elsie shook her head.

"I believe I'll go to bed and read, Mr. Carson." She stood and pushed her chair under the table.

The disappointment crossing his countenance made her think twice, but he answered quickly, "Oh. Well, I suppose it's been a long day. Er, goodnight, Mrs. Hughes." He cleared his throat and left the room hurriedly.

Elsie went to her bedroom and undressed slowly, thinking.

The next evening, she did the same. This time, Charles looked not only disappointed but surprised. "If you'd rather, Mrs. Hughes. I – I – ahem. Goodnight." Again, he exited with haste.

That entire week, Elsie followed the same pattern. She continued to be pleasant to Charles and kept her door open to him when he sought her counsel, but she refused to join him in the evenings.

At the end of the week, Charles knocked on her sitting room door after luncheon. "Mrs. Hughes, may I have a word?"

"Certainly, Mr. Carson," she replied, putting down her pen and turning in her chair from the house ledgers with a smile.

Charles closed the door quietly behind him. "Have – have I offended you in some way, Mrs. Hughes?" he inquired in a low, nervous voice.

Elsie thought a few seconds. "No, you haven't. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you've avoided our nightly refreshments all week, and I can't think why unless I've done or said something to offend." He wrung his hands.

Sighing softly, Elsie fixed her eyes upon the floor. "I apologize if I've upset you or made you think you've caused offense, because you haven't. I simply see no point to our meeting that way anymore, as you seem better now after Mr. Crawley's passing." When she lifted her head, she saw that his face bore a hurt expression.

"I thought you enjoyed our evening chats, Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie saw that he still didn't understand. He could be singularly obtuse about certain things, and she apprehended that she would have to tell him something – at least give him some hint of her thinking. Taking a deep breath, she stood and looked at him directly. "To be honest, Mr. Carson, our evening chats had become very important to me. Rather too important. And that's why I've had to give them up."

If anything, he appeared even more confused than he had before. "_Too_ important?"

She nodded. "Yes. Too important. And I can't see continuing them. They'll never become more, so far as I can tell." Elsie intoned this last sentence very softly, turning her head away from him.

"More?" Charles repeated, his brows drawn together.

Elsie sighed sadly, looking at him again. "I can see you still don't understand. I'm very sorry. More sorry than you know." She sat in her chair once more. "I should get back to work, Mr. Carson."

Charles, bewildered, walked to the door, realizing he'd been dismissed. "I'm sorry too," he said dejectedly, still unsure what she meant, but certainly sorry that she no longer wished to sit with him in the evening.

Once he got back to his pantry, he took up his place behind his desk. But instead of picking up his pen and going over the wine inventory, he put his head in his hands and contemplated his conversation with Elsie. _They'll never become more_, she'd said. His mind went back to their exchange from several months before, to how kind she'd been to him, to how she'd wrapped her hand around his wrist, how she'd kissed his cheek and then his temple, to how she'd offered her support to him – and how she'd delivered since then.

Did she not realize that having her there with him every evening meant the world to him? She was his best friend. He talked to no one like he did to her. Were they not important to her too? But no, she'd said they were – even that they'd become _too_ important. He began to glimpse something, to perhaps see…. _Does she care for me more than I recognize?_ he thought.

The question intrigued him. Instead of being embarrassed, the notion rather pleased him. Lifting his head from his hands, he stood. Retracing his steps, he stopped outside Elsie's door and rapped his knuckles upon it. "Mrs. Hughes? Might I trouble you a second time?"

At her consent, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, standing against it. It was her turn to look confused. "Is something the matter, Mr. Carson? You appear to have a fever." She rose from her seat and crossed toward him, her hand poised as though she were about to check his forehead for a temperature.

Charles raised his hand, and she halted, cocking her head in puzzlement. "I've been thinking, and I do wish there was something I could do to convince you to let us reestablish our nightly chats. They're important to me too." His eyes beseeched her.

Elsie caught her breath. "I – I don't know. It's not that I don't want to have them. It's just that –" She bit her lip.

Taking a few more steps, so there were only a few paces between them now, Charles spread his hands helplessly out in front of him. "What can I do to persuade you?"

Blushing now, she drew herself up to her full height, her head still barely reaching his nose. "I don't know," she repeated in a near whisper. "I don't think it would take much."

Charles gazed upon her. Her bosom heaved and her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks were the most becoming shade of pink he'd ever seen, and her face was tilted up toward him, almost expectantly. Or perhaps it was completely expectantly. Something clicked in Charles' head at that moment, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her until they were both dizzy.

He closed the distance between them and, hesitantly, put a hand on her arm. "Elsie," he whispered, noting her soft gasp at his use of her first name. "I think I know what might persuade you."

Relishing the gentle pressure of his hand upon her arm, Elsie took a deep breath. "Charles," she whispered, "don't cross that line if you don't mean it. I'll come sit with you in the evening either way." She smiled warmly.

Drawing closer to her, he bent his head and said in a low voice, close to her ear, "But I do mean it. And I hope that you'll do more than sit with me." He grazed his lips across her cheek and looked down into her face with a grin.

Coloring even more, Elsie breathed harder. "Charles Carson! The very thought!"

Charles chuckled. "Haven't you thought of it? I have. I simply –" here he grew solemn, touching her cheek with his other hand – "I didn't know how you felt. I didn't want to lose your friendship."

"You won't." She leaned closer to him, her lips parting.

He couldn't help himself anymore. Charles bent his head again and touched his lips to hers, elated that they felt just as he'd expected.

Elsie thought her heart might fly out of her chest as she grasped the sleeve of his suit coat between her fingers, pulling him closer to her. She'd been kissed before, but it'd been so long ago, that she felt she might have forgotten how. His tender touch reminded her though, made her feel like that giddy girl she once was.

When he finally ended the kiss, Charles gazed at her, rubbing her cheek with his fingers. "Are you persuaded?"

"Yes," Elsie replied. "I am."

She looked forward to all the sweet nothings that were to come.


	5. An appreciation of beautiful things

_A/N – Prompt from the Chelsie Anon: "They were on their way down the village main street after finishing their shopping when the skies opened up and it began to pour. Charles pulled Elsie into the warmth of the Grantham Arms. "Looks as though we might have to settle in for a bit, what say we have dinner and wait for the storm to pass?" he asked shaking the rain from his hat. The imperious butler ordered a sumptuous supper along with a fine bottle of wine which seemed to be going straight to Elsie's head. What happens next?" Whenever I can, I'll fit these into my existing narrative here… so, continued from "Sweet Nothings":_

* * *

"Yes, ahum, and a bottle of your finest wine," Charles said to the waiter.

Elsie's eyebrows raised. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to wine and dine me, Charles Carson."

Charles cleared his throat again, carefully not looking at Elsie, but outside at the deluge hitting the windows. "I think this will last a while. We might as well have a nice meal, don't you think?"

Watching his face, Elsie allowed herself a grin. Charles Carson, the buttoned-up butler, was blushing.

They'd been out that evening, spending a rare half day together, making a few purchases for themselves, when the storm hit. Charles had tugged Elsie into the shelter of the Grantham Arms. It had been a few weeks since they had shared their first kiss in her sitting room, but they still sometimes had trouble with the amount of intimacy this opened up for them – both physically and emotionally. In many ways, nothing had changed. The degree upon which they'd always relied upon one another meant that many aspects of their relationship remained comfortable. But Charles, particularly, had never really been the wooing type, and trying to, well, _court_ Elsie required a great deal of imagination on his part.

Thus, this storm appeared to be a stroke of luck – a way to sit with Elsie, outside of Downton, and get to know her in a different setting.

Or, at least, that's what he'd planned.

What he hadn't counted on was the effect of the wine. As they ate, he continued to pour for them both. However, his tiny companion rarely indulged in more than a few glasses of leftover wine with him at night after the Granthams' dinners. By the end of the meal, she had begun to slur, giving him meaningful looks, her face flushed and her eyes brighter than normal.

When Charles felt a foot upon his ankle, he nearly jumped out of his seat. He stared at her, his eyes wide, hissing, "Elsie!"

"Yes, Charles?" She fluttered her eyelashes as her foot travelled higher beneath the cuff of his trousers.

He stuttered a bit, beginning to feel quite warm. Although his fantasies about Elsie had grown ever more elaborate in the past weeks – spurred on by actually knowing the way her lips felt and the press of her chest against his own when he wrapped his arms around her – they hadn't actually gone much beyond kissing. And he certainly wasn't going to when she was so obviously drunk.

However, he also didn't want to take her back to Downton that way. He glanced out the window, where the storm showed no signs of letting up. At least they would have an excuse to stay put.

"Elsie, I think we need to ask for a room."

Her eyes brightened even more, and she purred, "Why, Charles, you rogue, you."

The glint in her eye paired with the lilt in her voice threatened to undo him. But he could not take advantage of her current state. "Elsie, I mean a room for you. You need some sleep. I'll stay down here."

Watching her face fall – her foot falling away with it – proved most unpleasant. "But – I thought we could –"

Charles shook his head reluctantly, lowering his voice and leaning toward her across the table. "You are in no state to make a rational decision about this, Elsie. I refuse to take advantage."

"Even if I beg you to?" Elsie's expression bordered on annoyance.

"Please, Elsie. Don't beg. I want it to be something you can remember later." His visage reflected a deep tenderness for her.

Her anger melted, and she bent her head down. "I suppose I've had rather too much, Charles."

Charles reached over and touched her hand. "Let me get you that room."

She raised her head and looked at him. "You'll – you'll stay with me, won't you?"

"Yes, of course I will." Giving her a warm smile, he rose and went to the bar, requesting a room as quietly as possible. Acquiring a key, he went back and helped Elsie up.

Giggling and stumbling, she leaned heavily against him as he guided her up the stairs – hoping against hope that no one would see her in this state, or he leading her up to a room – and fumbled with the key. Charles glanced at her throughout this process, never having seen her this way before. It disturbed him somewhat, at the same time that she completely enchanted him. But, of course, she was always enchanting.

He sat her down on the bed after closing the door behind them. Turning on one of the bedside lamps, he froze when he saw she'd begun unbuttoning her dress. "Elsie, what are you doing? You – you can sleep in your clothes, can't you?"

Elsie paused in her largely ineffectual attempts to unfasten her bodice, staring at him in some confusion. "I do realize I'm drunk, Charles, but that doesn't change the fact that I cannot sleep comfortably in a corset."

Coloring slightly, he wondered what to do. "Not even once?"

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she looked down again, plucking at the buttons. She muttered under her breath, becoming frustrated. Suddenly she lifted her head, her eyes pathetic. "Charles, please help me. My fingers won't work."

Charles was uncertain that if he did as she requested that his own fingers would work. He sputtered for a moment, until she started to glare at him. "Er, yes, of course." Taking a deep breath, he approached her.

Moving her hands aside, Elsie gave him a lop-sided smile. "Thank you, Charles. I knew you wouldn't let me be uncomfortable."

Smiling down at her as he applied trembling fingers to her bodice buttons, he said, "No, I wouldn't like that at all." He pressed a kiss to her forehead as he came to the bottom button.

Elsie had closed her eyes, trusting Charles to the task at hand, so she didn't see his look of surprise – and awe – when he began to slip her dress down her shoulders and arms. He quickly stifled a gasp, staring wide-eyed at her. Instead of the plain, staid corset he expected, the one Elsie wore was a deep blue satin, intricately embroidered with silk thread flowers. Still, despite its ornamental form, Charles saw clearly, in how the tops of her breasts strained against the delicate linen of her chemise, that the corset had function as well.

And now, surveying it with an eye toward how best to remove it, Charles breathed a bit heavier, realizing that undoing the hooks and eyes would bring his fingers into contact with her breasts, albeit through the fabric of the chemise. He gulped, feeling very warm again.

As he'd been quiet and motionless for a while, Elsie opened her eyes and drew her brows together. "Charles, are you alright? Do you need assistance? You unhook it in the front, see?"

Nodding, Charles exhaled silently, grateful that she put his hesitancy and focused attention upon her bosom to an attempt to understand the way a corset worked. Drawing in a long breath, steeling himself for the undertaking, he began unhooking the corset, his fingers shaking. He endeavored to free her of the corset as quickly as possible, as he felt familiar stirrings below his waistline every time he brushed the backs of his fingers against her breasts. Finally, done with the truly Herculean task she'd set him, Charles unwrapped the corset from around her and averted his eyes, placing the garment carefully upon a chair.

When he looked back at her, Charles breathed a sigh of relief that Elsie had already lain down upon her side, her arms tucked up against her chest, hiding it from view. Smiling, he went over to the bed, gently lifted her legs to turn down the bedclothes, and then pulled them up over her, tucking her in. Bending down, Charles pressed his lips gently to her brow, his heart giving a pleasant skip to hear her soft sigh of contentment.

"Goodnight, Elsie," he whispered, tucking a wayward strand of her dark hair behind her ear. For a moment, he watched her as she fell asleep, her breathing becoming deep and even. Then he cast an eye toward the unlikely corset, his mind flitting over images of what it might be like to see her in it again under different circumstances, wondering whether she had a variety of them or just this one.

After he'd pushed the somewhat naughty thoughts – wiping his brow and loosening his tie – aside, he decided it made sense for her to own delicate, pretty undergarments. She had to be so straight-laced and proper normally, in her role as housekeeper, but, after all, she was a woman, and he'd discovered early on that she had a keen appreciation for beautiful things.

And, goodness, was she beautiful in that corset.

Shaking his head again, he indulged in one more kiss upon her forehead and switched off the lamp, feeling his way carefully to a chair. Charles listened to Elsie's breathing as he drifted off, his head on the chair arm. Dreaming of seeing Elsie in a number of pretty things, he smiled in his sleep.


	6. No wife apart from Violet

_A/N: From a little series of tumblr drabble prompts, this one sent in from thankgodforcora: 12 (Insanity) for vipat._

* * *

"Patrick, really? That emaciated looking creature with the red hair?"

His mother's querulous tone grated on Patrick's ears. "Yes, Mama, if that's how you see her. _I_ don't see her that way." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, feeling a headache coming on. "And her name is Violet."

"I don't care," his mother said. "She isn't good enough for you, Patrick. You are the heir to the title 'Earl of Grantham' and she is the third daughter of a baron!"

"Mama, her parents are friends of yours! Papa, can't you get her to see reason?"

His father shook his head sternly. "No, I should be getting _you _to see reason, Patrick. Miss Whitlock is not only the daughter of a viscount, but has a far larger dowry than our friends can provide for Violet. It's insanity to deny it."

"I don't care!" Patrick's hand fell from his face as he glared at his parents. "Miss Whitlock is all well and good, but I don't think she even likes me! Violet and I have known one another since childhood! She knows the estate - she knows both of you. _She's_ the one I want to marry!"

"Patrick! Don't take that tone with your mother - or with me!" His father's face grew red and his eyes narrowed. "You will marry whomever we see fit."

"And not that skinny girl either. She looks unhealthy; how is she supposed to carry sons for you?" Patrick's mother rolled her eyes.

"She's not skinny!" he burst out. "She's lithe and beautiful and intelligent and she amuses me! I am not insane, either. I have thought about it a very long time. I will have no wife apart from Violet. It's the second half of the nineteenth century; you cannot force me to marry someone against my will." Patrick stood up straight and squared his jaw.

"You're making a grave mistake," his father said ominously. "Her dowry will not keep this estate from crumbling down around your ears."

"To hell with the estate!" Patrick did an abrupt about face and marched from the room, his fists balled at his sides, and not caring one whit about what his parents thought. He'd take Violet out riding and ask her that very day.


End file.
